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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322972">When in Camelot...</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds/elf_on_the_shelf'>elf_on_the_shelf</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pasta_Muffin/pseuds/Pasta_Muffin'>Pasta_Muffin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Comedy of Errors, Courtly Love, F/M, Gratuitous Medieval history references, Heist, Incompetence, Lady!Crowley, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship, knight!Aziraphale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:15:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,273</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds/elf_on_the_shelf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pasta_Muffin/pseuds/Pasta_Muffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Crowley accidentally becomes the centre of attention while trying to organise a heist in Camelot. Her aim: steal Excalibur.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When in Camelot...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Very loosely based on the following sentence: "Sexual Powerhouse Morgan Le Fay Swipes Excalibur"<br/>from https://www.ranker.com/list/weird-stories-from-king-arthur-and-his-knights/carly-silver</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>            Aziraphale was beginning to think he was being stalked. The world was, admittedly, a rather small place—only so many inhabitants, no real way to communicate across great distances outside of the celestial, and yet he kept running into her. In the centre of a knot of velvet-clad admirers slouched a woman all in black, blood-red hair twisted into a long rope and snaky eyes concealed behind an anachronistic approximation of sunglasses. Aziraphale tried not to catch her eye. </p><p>           Camelot was not a small fort. It was a castle town, constructed in a manner that was wildly historically inaccurate, largely because that bastard Merlin had seen visions of the future at some point. Aziraphale tended to think of that as cheating. In any case, the chances of running into Crowley, even here, on Aziraphale’s first day in Camelot, were unlikely if not uncanny. Coming upon the demon in the first courtyard Aziraphale walked into was downright suspect. </p><p>           Gabriel, who hadn’t deigned to set foot upon the firmament for the last hundred years, had sent a firm letter about progress and thwarting. Aziraphale, who tended to gravitate towards the best of human achievement, found himself in Camelot. Being the centre of all art and justice in Albion, he’d said to Gabriel, it was a likely target for the enemy. It didn’t hurt that, unlike much of the surrounding countryside, Camelot was largely warm and dry, and the food wasn’t entirely terrible. </p><p>           Aziraphale had tried, for centuries, to stick it out in the worst, most needful places on the earth, to provide aid to those who needed it. Gabriel had not approved, said miracles were devalued if they were overused, so Aziraphale picked easier targets. It was easier to sneak a miracle here and there, in a place that didn’t really need it, if Gabriel and Michael’s focus was elsewhere. </p><p>           That said, it was disappointing that Crowley, with all her “it’s easier to pretend to be busy than actually deliver results” had been right on that score. Aziraphale would never admit it though. Running into her constantly did not make matters easier, and of course, Crowley, towering over all of her suitors, immediately spotted Aziraphale. </p><p>           Crowley snaked her way out of the group, sloping over to Aziraphale. “What are you doing here?” There was no “s” in that sentence, but it still came out as a hiss.</p><p>           Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere? Away from your *ahem* admirers?” </p><p>           “Huh? What?” Crowley’s head snapped around, to the group of nobles and general court extras who were staring hard at Aziraphale. At least a couple were sharpening not so metaphorical daggers. “Oh, them. Yeah, sure.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s sleeve and steered him through an archway and deeper into the garden. It had a hedge maze. Every good legendary castle has a hedge maze.</p><p>           It was evening, the sky blushing into a deep purple, birds squawking as they fought over the contents of a refuse pit nearby. A pile of manure made its presence known with the sort of stench that almost made the air shimmer. Idly, Crowley redirected the breeze, dragging the odour of refuse into a new direction. Somewhere nearby, someone retched.</p><p>           “What are you doing here, angel?” Crowley said, carrying off from where the conversation had been last bookmarked. </p><p>           “My job, apparently,” Aziraphale said, a little haughty. He missed Rome. </p><p>           Crowley shook her head. “No, no, no, you can’t be here. Not now. I heard Ireland is pretty nice, too. Or Cornwall. Some prat trying to marry some younger woman, love potions and star-crossed lovers and all that…stuff. You love that.”</p><p>           Aziraphale shot her a look as if to ask, “Do I?” Hands on his hips, he said, “Why? What are you up to?”</p><p>           “Ah, uh, oh, just general trouble. Nothing specific.” Perennial wooden spoon holder in every “World’s Greatest Liar” competition since the beginning of Creation, Crowley dragged a hand through her hair, dislodging a number of pins. “I just think we shouldn’t be seen together in one small spot. You remember what happened last time.” Crowley was referring to any number of events where the two of them had been present, such as the Celestial destruction of two certain accursed cities. </p><p>           Crowley had a theory that they were present at every major event for the past, well, forever, because they were harbingers of doom: The earth’s only resident angel and demon operating in the same place at the same time did tend to garner unwanted attention from above and below. Aziraphale didn’t want to agree, but considering how surprised Crowley was to see him, perhaps the demon hadn’t sought him out. </p><p>           Aziraphale harrumphed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have called out to me. It’ll make it harder to pretend we don’t know each other.” He stalked off.</p><p> *</p><p>           Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley had huge freedom of movement. There was no “report to here, convert him, steer her into Hell’s waiting maw”. (Dagon had learnt the word “maw” some time ago and would not let it go.) So, when given incredibly vague instructions like “get up there and cause some trouble”, Crowley felt license to do whatever she liked. Go to any centre of debauchery, have a long nap, and claim credit for whatever nastiness humans came up with by themselves: Yeah, sure, why not? Go on a binge in Greece and shun sobriety for a solid decade: Yeah, when in Greece do as the…never mind. </p><p>           Anyway, Albion was cold and miserable, and Crowley wouldn’t be here if that bastard hadn’t kicked all the snakes out of Ireland. So, Crowley had thought, angels like to make things nice for themselves. They preach poverty and piety, but Crowley recalled the halls of Heaven, all swanky glass and pristine marble. Crowley had sought out Camelot for the same reason snakes seek higher ground—she’d wanted to get in from the rain. </p><p>           Imagine her horror when one night, while working her way through some truly excellent wine, a disembodied voice had interrupted Crowley’s “introspection”. Stealing the voice of an unfortunate drunk, who’d been slumped over a table in Camelot’s one and only dive bar, Dagon had abruptly boomed, “Hello, Crowley. It’s unfortunate you lost us Ireland.”</p><p>           Crowley had winced. “It’s that Aziraphale,” she’d lied. “He thwarted me.” This was total bullshit. Aziraphale had been in Iona at the time, granted, but he’d probably been drooling over the latest innovations in calligraphy. </p><p>           “Well,” Dagon had gone on, “at least you managed to position yourself somewhere useful. Beelzebub wants you to do something grand, something that will make up for all that lost territory. Redeem yourself, Crowley or Ligur will happily take your place. The hellhounds are always hungry.” The voice had faded, the drunk had woken up, stumbled outside and passed out in an alleyway. </p><p>           Crowley had slouched out of the bar, wandering up to the main road as a herd of knights made their way back from one glorious victory or another. At their head swanned the king. Arthur was a short man, ruddy haired and prone to smiling. Excalibur hung sheathed at his side, and Crowley raised an eyebrow, considering. </p><p>*</p><p>           The thing about a heist was that it was never as complicated as stories dictated it should be. There was all that faff about decoys and attractive women in cocktail dresses acting as distractions while the rest of the gang raided the safe. Crowley felt that overcomplicated matters. You find where the thing is stolen and you recruit someone who can get the door open, you swipe the thing, and you bugger off as fast as your legs (or wings) can carry you. </p><p>           That said, actually finding someone willing to nick Excalibur was both easier and harder than Crowley had been hoping: It was a shiny sword, it looked valuable, and people were all about coveting things they shouldn’t want. On the other hand, actually finding someone competent in this city was turning into a saga. </p><p>           Crowley was tall, taller than most people in Albion, and her hair was a striking red. That meant she garnered attention with little effort. Normally, that would not be a problem, but when one is trying to recruit accomplices for a heist, being the centre of attention is not a plus—it’s pretty hard to swipe anything when everyone is staring at you. </p><p>           That brings us to Crowley’s second problem: Crowley did not get along with any of the women in this place, many of them furious that their beaus had decided to cluster around Crowley like so many seagulls. The men, on the other hand, were so busy trying to declare undying devotion that Crowley couldn’t get a word in. Yesterday, some twit in too much silver armour had got on bent knee to ask for marriage or whatever, and when Crowley had asked. “Yeah, so, can I interest you in an enterprise that will benefit us both?” the prat had thought Crowley had accepted. For half a day, the man had been trailing after Crowley, begging for the go-ahead to pick a fight with some random mythical creature. Crowley had been avoiding him ever since. </p><p>           Aziraphale’s abrupt appearance in King Arthur’s court had been both a welcome distraction and a massive complication. Finally, someone she could talk to who wasn’t a total tit, who actually understood Crowley. They shared history, they could debate, even if the angel was reticent for broaching certain topics. Not that Crowley minded: asking questions was what had caused her fall, and she didn’t wish that on Aziraphale. (Not unless Aziraphale chose to fall, which would be interesting.)</p><p>           So, when Crowley spotted the angel, every instinct yelled for her to pretend she didn’t see him. Feign ignorance, don’t tempt fate, just be professional. Of course, Crowley had found herself calling out to Aziraphale. Of course. Crowley couldn’t help but stare after Aziraphale when their brief reunion had ended with the angel storming off. </p><p>*</p><p>           Gabriel was hot on strongly-worded notes. Aziraphale had cloistered himself on Iona, became entranced by a certain work of literary art, and Viking raiders had ruined it. Aziraphale had smuggled the book to safety, naturally, and Gabriel had not been pleased. Absolutely convinced that Crowley had been involved somehow (Crowley hadn’t been), and the death of so many monks had been treated as a loss: The monks represented a foothold in the pagan British Isles, and the victory of a Viking force had been a major failure. </p><p>           Aziraphale didn’t quite recall the details of the letter, but the words “dereliction of duty” had been there, right near the top. (Aziraphale tried not to think about how he’d protected the weaker monks, fortifying doors to keep the raiders out, healing and putting out fires. Aziraphale had not killed anyone, had never wanted to kill anyone.) The long and short of it was that Aziraphale had to redeem himself, or Sandalphon would be taking over. Aziraphale recalled what had happened in Sodom and Gomorrah, all the blood and death. He shuddered. </p><p>           So, Aziraphale had picked an easy target. Camelot was already a beacon of goodness, and it wouldn’t be too hard to bolster it a little, claim credit for that little good, then move onto somewhere that actually needed his help. (Aziraphale was torn between desiring creature comforts because there was nothing wrong with enjoying the creations of God’s well, creation, and actually doing something useful. Intervening, paradoxically, was what always seemed to result in ire from Gabriel’s direction.)  </p><p>           It was almost a relief, Aziraphale thought, stomping in the direction of the gatehouse, that Crowley was here. The old snake would doubtless be up to something. All Aziraphale had to do was thwart it and… There lies the rub. Crowley was the enemy, Aziraphale knew that, but Crowley was also far kinder and more interesting than any of Aziraphale’s co-workers. Treacherously, Aziraphale pondered if Sandalphon, with all his petty meanness and delight at the suffering of others, wouldn’t have made for a better demon than Crowley. It was hard to forget how Crowley had smuggled kids aboard the ark, when the angels–Aziraphale included, paralysed by fear and duty–had left them to drown. </p><p>*</p><p>           The thing is, right, it was all Aziraphale’s fault. Well, maybe it was also Crowley’s fault, because okay it was Crowley’s plan, but Aziraphale wasn’t usually so unsubtle about thwarting her: Crowley spent the next month following the same, dull pattern. Wake up, wander into the main hall and pretend to eat, linger near someone suitably sketchy, attempt to conspire, be interrupted by a hovering<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a> angel. All Crowley wanted to do, really wanted to do, was find out where the damn sword was kept when it wasn’t on his nibs’ belt, sneak in, swipe it, and probably toss it back into the lake.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a></p><p>           Crowley would smile and flirt, wrapping long red hair around a long finger. Leaning forward, mirroring the man’s every action, everything short of fluttering her eyelashes<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a>. After a few weeks of this, the men of the court started avoiding Crowley, even averting their eyes when she slunk into a room. </p><p>           Frustrated, Crowley approached a random lady’s maid and murmured, “Hey, what’s up with them? Why’re they are avoiding me like the great mortality?”<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a></p><p>           The woman, all blushing maiden pressed a hand to her cheek. “Oh, they don’t want to interfere with the course of true love.” </p><p>           Crowley raised one eyebrow, baffled. “What?”</p><p>           The woman reared back, more shocked than offended. “You haven’t noticed? He’s <em>courting you</em>.”</p><p>           Totally floored, Crowley didn’t hear the rest of her words over the rushing sound in her ears. Eventually, she emerged from her semi-catatonic state, finding herself alone. For the first time in her long life, Crowley truly wasn’t sure if she should seek out Aziraphale or simply abandon this whole venture and flee back to the continent. </p><p>           <em>Nah</em>, she thought, hysterical, <em>she’s human. Her perspective must be limited or something. She doesn’t know about the thwarting or the wiles or…</em> Crowley paused, as the thought petered out. From a human’s perspective, Crowley was flirting with every man who wasn’t already pining after someone or otherwise busy chasing after some questing beast. Every attempted instance of flirting was, well, thwarted by the appearance of Aziraphale. A knight who had not spoken to Crowley since their uncomfortable reunion, but who always appeared at the most inopportune times. Almost like a devoted but jealous lover who preferred to admire from far. </p><p>           Crowley swore. Pinching her nose between her fingers, she considered this. There were two ways she could respond to this. Firstly, pretend that Aziraphale was actually infatuated with her, which felt like a massive betrayal somehow. Yes, they were enemies, but friendly ones. Frenemies? Anyway, that felt like a non-option. Alternately, Crowley could simply confront Aziraphale. </p><p>           Hysteria bubbling up in her chest again, Crowley tried to picture that interaction. </p><p>Crowley: Hey, Angel, so apparently, I can’t fulfill my infernal job requirements because you’re actually too competent, with the whole disapproving of me for whatever reason. Everyone thinks you’re in love with me. </p><p>           Crowley could not begin to predict how Aziraphale would respond to such a statement. In a way, it was kind of tempting to see what would happen. For obvious reasons, she was not renowned for her ability to resist temptation. </p><p>*</p><p>           Once it had been pointed out, how Aziraphale’s stalking could be perceived as an expression of courtly love<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a> Crowley couldn’t not notice it. It was kind of like living in the sort of unique hell only experienced when someone points out, for example, a coworker’s faint but distinct monobrow: once seen, it cannot be unseen. </p><p>           Just to see what would happen, Crowley decided to up her game. During a banquet, she wandered over to a woman. Also tall, also read-headed, she was some relation to the king. Morgan something. </p><p>           Crowley draped an arm over the woman’s shoulder, winked, started some patter about this and that. Unlike the previous occasions, when the aim of the interaction was to get her hands on Excalibur, Crowley was aimlessly flirting. It should be noted, at this point that Crowley was utterly useless at flirting. Perhaps, at this point, were Crowley more prone to introspection<a href="#_ftn6" id="_ftnref6" name="_ftnref6">[6]</a>, Crowley would have prodded her own feelings and asked herself “Why do I care so much about the regard of a friendly enemy?” He did not. Perhaps, considering the events that would follow, this would have changed things. </p><p>           Just at when she was at the point of less-than-metaphorically lifting her skirts and saying “So, what do you think?”, Aziraphale stepped in. </p><p>           Face thunderous, he morphed his face into a smile for Morgan’s sake. “I’m so sorry, dear, I must borrow her for a moment.” </p><p>           Morgan smiled, bemused, “Be my guest.”</p><p>           Aziraphale then took Crowley’s hand by the wrist and led her away to a narrow stairwell. Crowley flailed internally, unsure how to feel, in light of that revelation. Aziraphale, ignorant of Crowley’s inner turmoil, led the demon up three flights of stairs, to a small wooden door. </p><p>*</p><p>           Crowley was infuriating! Weeks of…of ridiculous antics, of watching Crowley chat up every half-cocked courtier in Camelot. Aziraphale did not want to ask himself why this infuriated him, did not want to peer below the surface of his frustration. Tonight, though, tonight was enough: Crowley had turned her attention to that awful Morgan woman, and that was so much more than Aziraphale could bear. </p><p>           There was no good place to hold this discussion, nowhere that wasn’t already inhabited by drunken courtiers and lady’s maids busy being, well…courtly. Aziraphale eventually settled on a suitably thick oak door. He miracle it open.</p><p>*</p><p>           It is entirely possible, being alternately divine and infernal, that the only reason Crowley and Aziraphale were still alive<a href="#_ftn7" id="_ftnref7" name="_ftnref7">[7]</a> was because they were capable of magic: In every castle, there are certain doors that should always be left locked. This is not because there is something nasty behind them like a dozen murdered wives hanging from the wall. Consider why so many people were not far from this room, many of them armed<a href="#_ftn8" id="_ftnref8" name="_ftnref8">[8]</a>. Also consider what one does with a precious treasure, that it must exist somewhere as boring as a room. </p><p>           Excalibur was a weapon of legend. Often imitated, rumours circulated that a certain king often used a replica when out and about. The literal proof of his claim to the throne, and the symbol of his reign, it really was like a sort of phallic crown jewel. That said when not in use, it had to be kept somewhere, such as a usually well-guarded and rather isolated strongroom. </p><p>           Inadvertently, and without any intention, Aziraphale had let Crowley into the strongroom containing Excalibur. This is not something they were immediately aware of. </p><p>*</p><p>           To recap: Aziraphale is furious that Crowley is flirting with every man in Camelot and is unsuccessfully trying to convince himself that it is because Crowley is the enemy.<a href="#_ftn9" id="_ftnref9" name="_ftnref9">[9]</a></p><p>           Conversely, Crowley has had the sort of revelation usually experienced by protagonists of stories of a rather Lovecraftian nature. Not that Aziraphale was Yog-Shoggoth, but there was an existential crisis in play. </p><p>           Crowley, who may or may not have been trying to rile Aziraphale up, to see if the Angel was actually jealous, and Aziraphale who really, really is, were both standing next to an object only slightly less legendary than the Holy Grail. </p><p>           It was at that point, under Aziraphale’s glare, that Crowley cracked up. Doubling over, she clutched the fabric of her black dress<a href="#_ftn10" id="_ftnref10" name="_ftnref10">[10]</a>.</p><p>           Aziraphale frowned, expression shifting to bafflement. Hands-on his hips, he snapped, “What’s so funny?”</p><p>           Crowley straightened up, lifting her glasses off to wipe her eyes. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe what I heard, the other day.” In years to come, Crowley would blame the next sequence of events on temporary insanity. She said, “I’m here to steal a damn sword, and no one will talk to me because you keep following me around.”</p><p>           Aziraphale, not following, said, “Yes, well, I suppose that counts as thwarting, doesn’t it?”</p><p>           “You don’t get it, Angel.” Crowley shook her head, letting out a final huff of laughter. “According to some lady’s maid, no one wants to talk to me because everyone thinks you’re in love with me and no one wants to get in the way.”</p><p>           A long awkward silence followed.</p><p>           Aziraphale stared at Crowley, unseeing. For a moment, Crowley wondered if it was possible to discorporate because of sheer shock. Or outrage.<a href="#_ftn11" id="_ftnref11" name="_ftnref11">[11]</a></p><p>           As if summoned by the harsh call of Crowley’s laughter, booted feet thudded up the stairs, toward the room. It is vital that you remember two things. Firstly, before she Fell, Crowley was an Angel. Secondly, Angels fulfilled various roles, depending on their place in the divine hierarchy. Some were messengers, others were soldiers. Aziraphale, regardless of temperament, had been created as a soldier, as had Crowley.<a href="#_ftn12" id="_ftnref12" name="_ftnref12">[12]</a></p><p>           It was because of this training that Crowley automatically cast about for some kind of weapon. Had they been in a kitchen, it would likely have been a knife. As it was, there in a strongroom cum armoury, so the first thing she spotted was a sword in a glass case. As weapons went, it wasn’t very impressive. A broadsword with a wire sharp blade and a general lack of ornamentation it was designed for cutting.<a href="#_ftn13" id="_ftnref13" name="_ftnref13">[13]</a></p><p>           As it was, when the door was shoved open, entirely because voices were heard coming from the medieval equivalent of a high-security room, Crowley was pointing Excalibur toward a cluster of irate and tipsy knights. Half of whom belonged to the Round Table posse. </p><p>           Crowley, whose ophidian eyes were not concealed, was holding the most valuable artefact in all of Camelot. Of course, she was immediately identified as what she was. That is to say, a Demon and a thief, albeit an accidental one.<a href="#_ftn14" id="_ftnref14" name="_ftnref14">[14]</a></p><p>           Crowley quickly amended her grip. “Ah, yeah, pretty good.” She grinned at a bearded man who had been introduced to her as Sir Kay and a man with dark curly hair who could only have been Sir Lancelot.<a href="#_ftn15" id="_ftnref15" name="_ftnref15">[15]</a></p><p>           Sir Kay’s eyes bugged out. “What?”</p><p>           “Oh, uh yeah, I’m the sword inspector for the Lady of the Lake,” Crowley bluffed.<a href="#_ftn16" id="_ftnref16" name="_ftnref16">[16]</a> “It’s pretty good, but I don’t think it’s our best work, so I think I’d best take it back and I’ll be right back with a better sword.”</p><p>           You can probably imagine how well this statement was received. The knights threw themselves into the room, with all the aplomb of a badly filmed 1950s Hollywood approximation of such a story. It’s almost a pity that there was no chandelier for someone to swing on. </p><p>           Crowley fled into the depths of the room, and Sir Lancelot yelled to the other knights, “Get them!”<a href="#_ftn17" id="_ftnref17" name="_ftnref17">[17]</a></p><p>           Aziraphale blinked. “What? Me? We’re not together.” Nevertheless, he followed Crowley’s suit. He was in the room with Crowley, they were considered lovers by the general populace of the castle. Regardless of intention, Aziraphale was very much implicated. </p><p>           “This isn’t the time to argue semantics, Angel,” Crowley snapped. With her free hand, she grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and miracle them to safety. They landed with an unceremonious thud in the middle of a cope of birch trees, an untold distance away from Camelot proper. </p><p>           Night was falling, they were as lost as two preternatural beings could be, and for all they knew the entirety of Camelot’s armed forces would be hunting them down. That night was not one of Crowley’s finest moments. </p><p>*</p><p>           They struggled, for some time, in the dark. Aziraphale miracled a light, of course<a href="#_ftn18" id="_ftnref18" name="_ftnref18">[18]</a>, but they walked in sullen silence. Aziraphale blamed Crowley for dragging him into this farce; Crowley blamed Aziraphale for dragging him into a certain room. </p><p>           Eventually, they found their way to the edge of a great lake. Unceremonious, Crowley tossed Excalibur into the water.<a href="#_ftn19" id="_ftnref19" name="_ftnref19">[19]</a></p><p> </p>
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</div><p> </p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Not literally.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Magical swords were, arguably, more Aziraphale’s purview, and he hadn’t kept his.]</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> This is the middle ages, where women weren’t generally valued for their cognitive ability. As a woman or a woman-shaped being, options tend to be limited to flirting and outright violence.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Old-timey word for the plague. Blame Ken Follett for this one.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> and wasn’t that an interesting implication for all those courtly ballads</p><p><a href="#_ftnref6" id="_ftn6" name="_ftn6">[6]</a> like she one day would be</p><p><a href="#_ftnref7" id="_ftn7" name="_ftn7">[7]</a> depending on how one defines “alive”</p><p><a href="#_ftnref8" id="_ftn8" name="_ftn8">[8]</a> although, in this era, when most people used a dagger for every meal, that is perhaps not saying much</p><p><a href="#_ftnref9" id="_ftn9" name="_ftn9">[9]</a> No, Aziraphale is not jealous, it’s impossible.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref10" id="_ftn10" name="_ftn10">[10]</a> Can you honestly picture her wearing any other colour?</p><p><a href="#_ftnref11" id="_ftn11" name="_ftn11">[11]</a> Crowley really hoped it wasn’t outrage: eternity would be really, really dull without someone like Aziraphale to needle.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref12" id="_ftn12" name="_ftn12">[12]</a> She never would have been sent upstairs to “make some trouble” had she been a messenger or a sentient footstool, like one of the Thrones: It made no tactical sense to pit a piece of furniture against a soldier, even if that soldier did have pacifistic tendencies.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref13" id="_ftn13" name="_ftn13">[13]</a> Picture how effective a solid gold, see soft, jewel-encrusted sword would have been on a battlefield.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref14" id="_ftn14" name="_ftn14">[14]</a> Is there a word for when one is so incompetent they succeed by accident? Failing upwards, perhaps?</p><p><a href="#_ftnref15" id="_ftn15" name="_ftn15">[15]</a> “From underneath his helmet flow’d his coal dark curls” etc. Centuries later, when Aziraphale met a certain poet laureate, he’d be glad he recalled this little descriptive detail.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref16" id="_ftn16" name="_ftn16">[16]</a> It took all she had to not snort at her own double entendre.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref17" id="_ftn17" name="_ftn17">[17]</a> Nameless grunts.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref18" id="_ftn18" name="_ftn18">[18]</a> “Let there be light”,</p><p><a href="#_ftnref19" id="_ftn19" name="_ftn19">[19]</a> Unheard by either Angel or Demon was a muffled curse and the sound of a woman muttering “Ow!”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Edit: Just some proofreading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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